


Flight Theory

by parcequelle



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, M/M, Roommates, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: He sprawls out, stares up at the ceiling, and can’t help grinning at it: he’s actuallyhere. He’s at Starfleet Academy. After everything that happened to stack the odds against him, he passed the entrance exam and he crossed half the quadrant and he’s here, and he’s going to be the best cadet he can be.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Flight Theory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redheadgleek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redheadgleek/gifts).



> This fic was written for redheadgleek for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, for the request 'Star Trek AU with the characters of Carry On'. This was a lot of fun to write, and I really hope you enjoy it! Thanks so much for your donation and your participation!

An entire week before Orientation their first semester at the Academy, Simon’s new roommate - Pitch, T. B. - beats him to their shared quarters. It sucks mainly because Simon’s massively inelegant entrance betrays him as an offworlder right away; the automated doors on the colony where he grew up were old and temperamental, and he and his mum always had to stand really close to the mechanisms and lean their weight against them to get them to open. He’s been travelling for 44 hours straight and he’s nearly asleep on his feet, so it’s not his fault he briefly forgets where he is, leans too hard on the high-tech, oversensitive door, and stumbles into the room like a drunken _targ_. 

Okay, maybe it is. It’s definitely his fault that he trips over his own shoes and lands in a heap on top of his sad single bag. At Pitch’s feet.

Pitch, who is of course tall, strong, handsome, poised, and owner of the galaxy’s most aristocratic nose, sneers down at Simon like he’s… well. Like he’s something slithering around on the ground. ‘I assure you this subservience is unnecessary,’ he says, and his voice sounds like the villainous offspring off a smirk and a piece of dark chocolate.

A moment passes, during which Simon stares up at him like a stunned goldfish, and then Pitch sighs, long-suffering - how is he managing to look that long-suffering when they’ve only known each other three seconds? - and extends a hand. Simon takes it and regrets it almost instantly, because Pitch’s fingers are freezing, even though they’re standing in a climate-controlled Starfleet Academy dorm room. It’s quite a feat.

He hauls himself up and tries on a friendly smile. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m Simon.’

‘Simon Snow,’ Baz says. ‘I read it on the door.’

‘Oh,’ Simon says. He stands there, feeling awkward.

‘Tyrannus Basilton Pitch,’ says Pitch. ‘I go by Baz. Call me Tyrannus and you’ll live to regret your choice.’

‘Um,’ Simon says, raising his eyebrows, ‘okay.’

He turns away from Pitch’s narrowed, assessing eyes to properly examine their quarters, and finds he feels comfortable already. The space is sparse and utilitarian, the walls and furniture the same dull shade of pale grey that characterises Starfleet decor everywhere; it’s like a clean slate, a way to start a different life in a place where no one knows him or his history. He’s never had that before now.

Baz has already claimed the bed by the window, but Simon’s not fussed -- this place is luxurious compared to that first shelter he and his mum stayed in when he was 11, so he’s not going to complain about sharing a common wall with the lav, or a common room with his looming, serious, sunstarved roommate.

Satisfied, Simon tosses his bag onto his new bed and flops down beside it, kicking his shoes off onto the floor. He sprawls out, stares up at the ceiling, and can’t help grinning at it: he’s actually _here_. He’s at Starfleet Academy. After everything that happened to stack the odds against him, he passed the entrance exam and he crossed half the quadrant and he’s here, and he’s going to be the best cadet he can be. He just wishes his mum were still alive to see it.

It’s weird, but he’s almost grateful to his shitty no-name father for abandoning them on Devron II when he was a baby. If it weren’t for that, Simon might never have learned to pilot a shuttle, might never have discovered his interest in astrometrics or exozoology.

‘Put your shoes back on, Snow,’ comes Pitch’s disgusted voice from the other bed. ‘Your feet smell like a Parrises Squares tournament.’

His dad leaving also gave Simon a thick skin. He’s pretty grateful for that, too.

*

Baz is not a chatty roommate. Not unless the topic of the day is insulting Simon, or berating Simon, or criticising the way Simon wears his cadet uniform; then he could chat over an exploding warp core. They’re three weeks into their training, and Simon and Baz share every class except Introduction to Astrometrics and Flight Theory 101, which are Simon’s only strengths. The exposure of those other classes has not endeared them to each other.

Simon’s new friend Penny, who’s the smartest, coolest, scariest person Simon’s ever met and who’s definitely going to be a captain someday, tells him this mutual frustration is a normal part of the psychology of transition.

‘You just have to get used to each other,’ she says. ‘He comes from one of those powerful, posh families that helped found the Federation. His great-great-great-grandmother was like the first ever CMO of Starfleet.’

At Simon’s blank look, Penny says, ‘I’m saying he’s a snob, Simon. He’ll get over it when he finds out how good you are at Flight Theory.’

‘Not likely,’ Simon says, thinking of how lost he was in Federation Diplomacy earlier, and how Baz smoothly (and accurately) answered every question he was asked. ‘He’s just such a prat, Penny. He’s a prat and he’s a bully. What can I do to stop him being such a prat? Besides--’

‘--don’t say punch him. Punching him isn’t an option. “Cadet on cadet violence excluding cases of self-defence is cause for immediate dismissal without grounds for appeal.”’ Penny says this in what Simon has come to recognise as her lecturer voice, and he casts a sidelong glance at her as they walk out of the library to their next class.

‘Did you memorise the handbook?’ he asks.

‘Of course I did. Did you hear me?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Simon says, ‘don’t worry, I’m not going to punch him. His nose is so bloody pointy it’d probably break my hand anyway.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Penny says.

‘So if I’m not allowed to punch him, what can I do?’

‘I don’t know, Simon. Laugh at his jokes? Be nice to him? Surprise him into leaving you alone?’

‘I wish. The only thing he seems to like better than avoiding me is winding me up.’

Penny eyes him, assessing in a way that doesn’t make him feel entirely comfortable. It’s like she’s reading things into his words than he can’t see. But she says nothing, and they keep walking to class.

*

Simon is lying sprawled on his stomach on his bed, pretending he isn’t half-asleep, when the door swishes open and Baz comes barging through it like a stampede of angry hippos, his face pinched and even whiter than usual.

‘Shit.’ Simon sits bolt upright at the noise, heart pounding, and nearly falls off his bed in the process. He’s pulled himself onto his feet before he can think about it. ‘Are you okay?’

‘None of your business,’ Baz snarls. He tosses a messy heap of books onto his otherwise pristine bed and then starts to pace, hands tight behind his back.

‘Baz, you look terrible.’

Baz’s lip curls. ‘As do you. Every day.’

Simon huffs and shifts forward on his bed. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Why should I? Because you _care_?’

‘Because I’m not a dick, unlike you?’ Simon glares at him. ‘Just tell me!’

Baz makes a face like he’s just accidentally swallowed a lemon, but he says, Commander Salisbury.’ Then at Simon’s blank look, ‘The Mage? Waves a ruler around like a magic wand when he lectures? Beard like a git?’

‘Oh, you mean our Flight Theory instructor?’

‘Of course I mean our Flight Theory instructor, who else?’

Simon ignores this unnecessary snark and asks, ‘What’d he do?’

‘He behaved in a deplorably biased and unprofessional manner during the lesson today purely to make me, and my mother by association, look like an idiot.’ 

Simon stares at him. ‘What’s your mum got to do with anything?’

Baz stares back. ‘You cannot possibly be this thick, can you?’

‘Shut up.’ Simon chucks a pillow at him, but Baz dodges it easily. Wanker.

‘I suppose you can,’ Baz mutters, but there’s the rare - the impossible - ghost of a smile on his lips, a curiosity that makes Simon feel bizarrely like he’s won something. ‘For those of us in the room who have no respect for the history of Starfleet: my mother is Natasha Grimm-Pitch, and she was Head of Starfleet Intelligence until fourteen years ago, when she… she was killed in a plasma explosion aboard the _Excelsior_. It was her first away mission in over six years.’

Baz’s face is blank, but there’s more emotion in his eyes than Simon has seen since he’s met him; Baz is usually a closed book. A closed book of snark. Simon feels the sudden urge to go over there, to sit beside Baz on the bed and comfort him, or something, but he resists. Instead he asks, ‘Was it an accident?’

Baz nods. ‘There was an investigation, and I… I’ve come to trust in the findings. But my mother was a powerful woman, and not everyone agreed with the way she ran things. She had enemies, a faction of which included the Mage.’ Simon’s confusion is probably obvious - he’s never had much of a poker face - because Baz adds, ‘The Mage was my mother’s main rival for the Intelligence position. It seems he’s been waiting a long time to take his frustration at not getting it out on me.’ 

Silence hangs between them, the only silence that’s ever even come close to being companionable, and then Simon ruins it by blurting out, ‘That’s stupid.’

Baz sneers at him. ‘You’re a font of wisdom, as usual.’ 

Simon ignores that. He rests his elbows on his knees and keeps his eyes on Baz, who has finally stopped pacing and is now leaning moodily against the door, sleeves rolled up to bare the pale forearms crossed over his lean chest. ‘What exactly did he do? Ask you really hard questions or something?’

‘That’s just a normal day in the Mage’s class, isn’t it?’ When Simon doesn’t take the bait, Baz sighs. So softly Simon almost doesn’t hear him, he says, ‘He made me operate a flight simulator check in front of the entire class.’

‘He _what_?’

Baz scowls. ‘You heard me.’

‘But that’s… that’s mental,’ Simon says. ‘We’re first year cadets. We’ve been in Flight Theory for two months.’

‘I’m aware,’ Baz says tightly.

‘And everyone just… watched it happen? No one said anything?’

‘How wonderfully naive of you to assume I have other cadets rushing to my defence,’ Baz mutters. He finally shifts away from the door and over to his own bed, a slinky, rolling movement that makes Simon momentarily lose the plot.

To shake off whatever the hell that lapse was, he snaps, ‘Don’t see why you wouldn’t, what with your winning personality.’

‘Hilarious.’

‘So the Mage tells you to run a check on the flight simulator, which isn’t even allowed for cadets below second year Flight Theory, and then… what, gets pissed at you when you don’t know how to work it?’

Baz grimaces. ‘That’s about the gist of it, yes.’

‘And he would’ve got pissed at you if you _had_ been able to work it, because then it would look like you’d been using the simulator without permission.’

‘That is… uncharacteristically insightful of you, Snow, yes.’

Simon rolls his eyes. ‘Can’t you just call me Simon? You make me feel like I’m still in class when you call me Snow.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Baz says, and he looks so horrified, so affronted, that Simon nearly laughs.

‘Fine. Did you say anything to him? Try to stand up for yourself?’

‘I told him… I did tell him that I was under the impression flight simulators were off-limits to first year cadets.’

‘And?’

‘And he told me not to disguise my own incompetence with petty excuses.’

‘What the _hell_!’ Simon bursts out, making Baz jump slightly out of his sprawl. It would be funny if Simon weren’t so outraged. It’s not like he likes Baz, or anything, but this is just wrong. Starfleet Academy is supposed to be just; it’s supposed to be fair and righteous and not like the screwed up rest of the galaxy. He knows it’s naive, but he’d really come here hoping things would be better, that petty power games and politics wouldn’t be so… blatant. Simon stares at Baz for a moment too long - Baz is the first one to break and look away, which is interesting - and then he clears his throat. ‘So,’ he says, ‘what are we going to do about it?’

‘“We?”’ Baz sneers. ‘There is no “we”, Snow. This is my problem, and I will find a way to solve it. On my own.’

‘How?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘How are you going to solve it?’

Baz sneers again, but it’s less venomous this time. ‘Like I’d tell you that.’

‘You don’t know, do you?’ Simon shakes his head. ‘You don’t know and you still won’t accept my help. Just because it’s me.’

Baz looks like a teenager when he crosses his arms huffily over his chest. ‘I can’t possibly imagine what solution you could come up with that I couldn’t come up with first. Or better.’

‘God, you’re a prat.’ 

‘Go on then,’ Baz sighs, gesturing dismissively in Simon’s direction as though Baz is doing him a favour and not the other way round. ‘If your idea’s so wonderful, let’s have it.’

‘I’ll teach you,’ Simon says. ‘How to fly.’

He is expecting a bitchy reaction - this is Baz, after all - but he isn’t expecting Baz to laugh so hard he starts snorting and nearly falls off his own narrow bed. ‘You?’ Baz wheezes. ‘You, who can barely program a basic isolinear chip or remember the Prime Directive?’ 

Baz is still laughing, as genuinely entertained as Simon has ever seen him, and Simon narrows his eyes. His general intolerance for injustice had convinced him to make the offer, but he’s not a pushover; if Baz wants to act like a dickhead, he can do it alone.

‘You know what, Baz? Fuck you.’ Simon stands so abruptly that Baz stops laughing; he blinks up at him, dull with surprise. ‘You want to be on your own, I’m not going to stop you. I have a lecture.’ He gathers his PADDs together, tosses them into his carrybag, and storms out of the room. Baz doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t try to follow him.

Simon tells himself he’s not disappointed.

*

Simon manages to freeze Baz out for a blissful day and a half, and he’s never been more grateful that they’ve already arranged their individual schedules around spending as little time together as possible. He’s getting used to this pleasant new state of affairs - not being insulted every five minutes, not having to wonder what Baz is up to, not having to glare at him and the stupid way his hair flops into his face - when he steps out of the shower one evening after class and finds Baz waiting for him, looming creepily beside the bathroom door.

Simon, under the impression that Baz will not be in the room with him when he showers because he’s _never_ in the room when he showers, has nothing on but one towel wrapped around his hips and another towel wrapped around his head, and he’s so shocked to see Baz standing there that he nearly drops the important one. ‘What the hell, Baz!’ he yells, clinging onto the towel for dear life. ‘What are you _doing_ here?’

Baz raises a bored-looking eyebrow. ‘I live here, do I not?’

Simon huffs. ‘I mean _here_ , you wanker. Next to the bathroom. While I’m in the _shower_.’ He would gesture, but he doesn’t want to risk losing the towel; it feels like, perhaps, the worst thing in the world that could possibly happen. He doesn’t want to think about why.

‘You owe me a flight lesson.’

Simon sputters. ‘Excuse me?’

Baz waves a dismissive hand in Simon’s general direction, his face full of distaste, and says, ‘Get dressed and come with me. We need to go now, while everyone else is in the mess hall.’

‘Why the hell should I go anywhere with you? I thought I could “barely program an isolinear chip”.’ 

Baz shifts in the face of Simon’s glare - it’s immensely satisfying - and then tells him, grudgingly, ‘I admit I may have spoken… hastily. Earlier. I asked around and determined that, contrary to the evidence in every other area of your life, you appear to be the…’ - here Baz swallows, like it costs him physical effort to say the words - ‘superior cadet. In Flight Theory.’

‘Okay,’ Simon says, re-securing his towel and resisting the very strong urge to smirk, ‘say I do help you. What’s in it for me?’

Baz golfishes. ‘You… you offered to help me!’

‘And you turned me down.’

‘What do you want, then?’

_What do I want?_

Wild responses course through Simon’s mind in the seconds to follow: the bed by the window, for you to do something about your hair, for you to stop staring at me like that. He could have said any of them, smirked any of them, but what he says, before he even plans it, is: ‘For you to call me Simon.’

Baz shakes his head in evident surprise, and then laughs uneasily. ‘What?’

‘You heard me,’ Simon says. ‘You want my help? You have to stop calling me “Snow”. Call me by my name.’

‘You…’ Baz shakes his head again. ‘You are so very strange, Sn -- Simon,’ he murmurs. ‘Out of anything you could pick, you pick this?’

‘So you agree?’

Simon thrusts out his hand - the one not holding the towel, for fuck’s sake, he’s still standing there a towel - and Baz only stares at it in vague disgust for a couple of seconds before he takes it.

‘I do.’

‘Then let’s go.’

*

Baz was right about everyone else being at dinner: the cadet wing is nearly deserted, their two sets of footsteps echoing off the spotless chrome floor, and they don’t meet a single person on their way to the restricted holosimulator. Simon has only just wondered how long it’s going to take Baz to notice, or to ask, before Baz turns to him with accusingly jagged eyebrows.

‘How do you have access to this place?’ he demands, after Simon has swiped them into the empty room with his commbadge, voice print, and retinal scan. Starfleet doesn’t do anything by halves. ‘You’re a first year. No first years have access to the simulator.’

‘Then why did you ask me to help you?’ Simon is leaning against the doorway and he knows he’s smirking, but he can’t help it - this is the first time he can remember ever feeling like he’s the one with the power; like Baz is on something other than even footing. Like Baz is looking at Simon like he’s got something to give.

Baz sneers, but his eyes are too curious for it to have any great effect. Simon resists the unexpected urge to preen, or crow, or do something else bird-like and immature. ‘I assumed you’d go to the Mage and ask for an access pass,’ Baz says. ‘Or maybe Lieutenant Possibelf.’

‘I have a semester pass,’ Simon says. The door has swished shut behind them, and they’re standing alone, together, in a room that isn’t their own, for the first time ever. Simon swallows, abruptly hyperaware of the foot of space between them. ‘The Mage, um. He wants me to joint the shuttle demonstration team next semester.’

‘Next _semester_?’

Simon shrugs. ‘I like flying.’

‘You must do more than just “like” flying, for the Mage to want you,’ Baz murmurs. He’s looking at Simon like he’s never seen him before. ‘You must be damned good at it. He’s notoriously difficult to please. I should know.’

Simon shrugs again, and Baz sighs. ‘Eloquent as always, I see.’

‘If you want me to do this, now would be a good time to shut up,’ Simon warns. He turns to the panel beside the door and activates a basic simulation program: a standard-design Class C shuttle materialises before them, the black and yellow of the hologrid fading out to settle into the matte grey of a generic Starfleet shuttlebay. ‘Come on.’

He leads Baz into the shuttle, demonstrating how to key in the sequence to manually open its doors, before he takes a seat and gestures Baz into the one beside him. Baz glares at him. ‘I want to learn to pilot a shuttlecraft, Sn… _Simon_ , not be your sidekick.’

‘It’s this or nothing,’ Simon tells him, as patiently as he can manage. ‘If you think I’m going to let you start in the pilot’s seat when you have zero experience, you’re delusional. You’d blow us up.’

‘We’re not even in a real shuttle!’

‘That’s not the _point_. You have to respect the foundations of flight theory before you can fly and that’s that. Sit down.’

Baz sneers at him but obeys.

‘Right,’ Simon says. ‘What do you know about running a pre-flight sequence?’

‘Not a lot,’ Baz admits, reluctance all over his pinched face. ‘Only what we’ve heard in lectures.’ He glances over at Simon and then looks quickly back down at his hands, long and pale where they rest on the unlit dashboard. ‘I know we have to start by checking if the fusion reactor core is stable.’

Simon nods. ‘Computer,’ he says, ‘launch pre-flight sequence.’ To Baz, he says, ‘Do you know how to check the core?’

Baz frowns, but leans forward to scan the panel in front of him. ‘Is it… read the graviton balance in the port and starboard supplies?’ He looks like it’s costing him every inch of his pride to ask for confirmation from Simon, but he does it; Simon feels a totally inappropriate surge of pride somewhere in his stomach region and tries not to think about why.

‘Exactly.’ He leans over to Baz and motions to two small panels to his left. ‘Here and here.’

Baz presses them, cautiously; a few moments later, the computer says, ‘Fusion core stable.’

Simon shows him how to check that the navigational deflector, the forward sensor array, and the forward emitter array are online, and then stops. Baz frowns at him. ‘What is it?’

‘We should skip the next part,’ Simon says. He’s sure - he knows he’s sure - so why does his voice come out so hesitant?

Baz notices immediately, of course, and narrows his eyes. What’s the next part?’ 

‘Phaser check.’

‘Is it part of the standard pre-flight sequence?’

‘Well, yeah, but--’

‘Then we should do it,’ Baz says. He turns in his chair and studies Simon intently, his too-dark eyes making Simon feel… unbalanced. ‘Shouldn’t we?’

‘Maybe,’ Simon says. ‘It’s necessary for the pre-flight sequence, but I’m not…’

‘Brave enough?’ Baz asks, smirking.

‘ _Allowed_ ,’ Simon corrects. ‘The Mage made me promise I wouldn’t use the phasers. He wasn’t even meant to authorise me for use of the simulator.’

Baz is still watching him, eyes impenetrable. He asks, ‘Who’s going to know?’

Simon swallows. He can’t drag his eyes away. ‘We will.’

‘I won’t tell a soul,’ Baz murmurs. He’s leaning closer, now, resting his gangly elbows on his gangly knees; there is still a foot of space between them, but it feels like less. It feels like nothing. ‘I swear it.’

Simon swallows again. He feels light-headed. Maybe because he hasn’t had dinner yet. ‘You swear it. Why should I trust you? All you do is insult me and make my life miserable.’

Baz blinks, and the moment is broken - Simon flushes, feels it all the way from his chest and up his neck and into his cheeks, and he pushes his chair away from the console with too much force.

‘No,’ he growls. ‘We’re done here.’

He hears Baz call his name - his actual name - as he stomps out of the shuttle and out of the door, but he ignores him; he pauses only to deactivate the holosimulation, and then he stomps back to his room.

Penny comms him soon after to find out why he isn’t at dinner, and he tells her he has a headache; he just doesn’t tell her the headache’s name is Baz. She’d want to know why, and then she’d tell him he was complaining too much, and it would suck because he’d know she’s right.

‘Okay,’ she says, dubiously. She probably knows he’s hiding something from her; she usually does. ‘I’m down in the mess hall with Agatha if you change your mind.’

‘Thanks,’ Simon says, and he means it. He’s appreciating his friends more than usual, today, even though he’s begging off to sulk.

He sinks into the covers of his unmade bed, wrapping himself in the silence and the comforting gloom, and tries not to think. He’s gotten good at that, during his life, and he’s gotten even better at it since he met Baz. Not that he’s going to think about _that_. He’s pissed at Baz. Baz is a selfish jerk who uses people and then leans too close and stares at you with his weirdly hypnotic eyes to get you to jeopardise your cadetship at Starfleet Academy.

Baz is a tool. Baz is--

\--barging through the swished-open doors with such force - again - that Simon honest-to-stars falls off the bed and lands in an awkward heap, Baz standing above him. He’s been here before, on the ground at Baz’s feet, and he could do without the reminder. Flustered, he pushes himself to his feet and scowls. ‘What do you want?’

‘This is my room, Snow.’

‘Not right now it isn’t.’

Baz takes a breath but doesn’t move any closer. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a touch overdramatic? It’s not like I actually did anything wrong.’

‘You tried to convince me to literally break the law!’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘No. I only... ‘ Baz makes a frustrated noise. ‘I got carried away. That was the first time I’ve ever been in the cockpit of a shuttle, real or otherwise, and it was… it was _fantastic_. The Mage has never made me feel anything less than moronic in Flight Theory, and today was… well.’ He sniffs, like he’s trying to recover his bravado. ‘Today was not that.’

Despite himself, and despite the fact that he’s still pissed off, Simon cracks a smile. ‘Is this your way of saying thank you?’

‘Possibly,’ Baz mutters. He runs a long, thin hand through his shoulder-length hair, and Simon watches it flop right back into his face. ‘I actually wanted to… apologise.’ He grits his teeth around the word. Simon stares at him, astonished. ‘I... appreciated your help.’

When he says nothing further, the silence pulses knowingly between them. ‘Um,’ Simon finally says, when it gets to be too much. ‘Uh, wow.’

Baz rolls his eyes. ‘In exchange for assisting me, I thought perhaps I could coach you in Intra-Terran Languages. Seeing as you’re utterly hopeless, you have the memory of a goldfish, and we have a major exam coming up.’

‘Why are you--’ Simon starts, fired up on injustice, before he processes Baz’s words and realises he’d been an idiot to turn him down, even if it’ll be a nightmare to spend time with him twice a week for the rest of semester. He’ll deal with that problem when he comes to it. Now, he just says the first thing that comes to mind. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course,’ Baz sniffs. ‘Pitches never make offers they don’t intend to honour.’

‘If you say so,’ Simon says, sceptical, but he’s already made up his mind. He nods and sticks out his hand. ‘Deal,’ he says. ‘Truce?’

Baz shakes his hand firmly - his skin is cool, just like the last times - and then drops it again. ‘Truce. Shall we do it now? Study?’

‘Nah,’ Simon says. ‘We missed dinner, and I should go down anyway, meet up with Penny.’

Baz doesn’t make eye contact when he asks, too casually, ‘Is Penny your girlfriend?’

‘My friend,’ Simon corrects. Baz expression is unreadable. ‘How about tomorrow?’

Baz nods, and something on his face shifts minutely, relaxes a little more. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Now go and eat before your bottomless stomach shuts down.’

‘Fine,’ Simon echoes. ‘And it’s Simon, remember? Don’t think I didn’t notice you called me Snow again, before.’

‘Whatever,’ Baz mutters, but his lip is curved and it’s almost a smile. ‘ _Simon_.’

*

He hates to admit it, but Baz is an excellent tutor. He insults Simon’s intelligence on a near-constant basis, and he rolls his eyes so often that Simon half-expects him to sprain them, but he’s great at explaining things that would otherwise make no sense, and he’s surprisingly patient with Simon’s errors.

They’re sitting on opposite sides of a wide metal desk in the library, Baz muttering at Simon over a heap of PADDs, when something happens that Simon didn’t expect but really should have: Penny walks over and sits down beside him.

‘ _There_ you are,’ she exclaims, dropping her bag down onto the table with a thud. ‘We were supposed to meet to go running at 16:00, remember? But it looks like something came up…’ she gives Simon a pointed look and then smiles not-quite-sweetly in Baz’s direction. ‘Hello, Pitch.’

Baz sneers. ‘Bunce.’

They know each other, of course - the three of them have several classes together, but even without that, Baz and Penny are each other’s main academic competition - but Simon’s never seen them speak. The silence buzzes around them, tense and awkward. Simon clears his throat. ‘Sorry, Pen,’ he says. ‘I totally forgot. Baz was just’--Baz shakes his head wildly behind Penny’s back, but Simon just frowns at him--‘helping me out with Linguistics. Before the exam, y’know.’

Baz sighs like Simon’s an idiot, but Simon doesn’t care. Lying to Penny isn’t an option.

‘Baz was,’ Penny says flatly. ‘Baz who hates you. Who you hate.’

‘I am still here, you realise,’ Baz drawls, but Penny just waves him off. 

‘We’re on a truce,’ Simon tells her. ‘He’s helping me with Linguistics in exchange for me helping him with--’

‘--Snow--’

‘--Simon--’ Simon corrects, ‘--Flight Theory.’

‘Ohhhh,’ Penny says, nodding, her face losing its judgmental frown and morphing into something compassionate. ‘I understand. That’s good of you, Simon.’

‘It’s good of me to endure him,’ Baz grumbles.

Penny turns to Baz. ‘It’s not on, what the Mage did to you last week. Or the weeks before, for that matter.’

‘The weeks before?’ Simon asks, curious despite the furious look Baz is giving him.

‘He’s such a jerk, Simon, you wouldn’t believe it. I don’t like Baz any more than you do, but the Mage is _so_ unprofessional. He’s clearly got favourites, and he’ll ask someone like Agatha a really easy question and then ask Baz something a third year wouldn’t know. It’s so unfair.’

‘I wasn’t aware that you’d noticed,’ Baz murmurs.

Penny nods. ‘How could I not? I knew the answers to the questions he asked, but that’s only because my brother Premal’s in his first year as an ensign aboard the _Commodore_ and I made him give me all his old PADDs.’ 

‘You read them?’ Baz asks. He leans forward, looking kind of reluctantly fascinated.

‘Yeah!’ Penny exclaims, her dark eyes lighting up the way they always do when she talks about nerd stuff. ‘It was so cool. Some of it was a bit hard to parse because we’re still only in Beginner Quantum Physics, but we’ve got some great content to look forward to.’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ Baz says. ‘Assuming I can pass the Mage’s sodding class, which is looking less and less likely.’

‘I talked to him,’ Penny tells them. ‘After class. I told him I thought he was being a bit hard on you.’

Baz baulks. ‘You did _what_?’

‘I don’t care for injustice,’ Penny says, crossing her arms. ‘I knew it would be suicide to say something in class, so I went up to him after it was over.’

‘That was a bold move, Bunce,’ Baz says, more earnest and more concerned than Simon has ever heard him. ‘Brave, but dangerous, too - I don’t know that I’d trust a young person alone in the company of that… man.’

Simon goes cold at the implication, and grips Penny’s hand, probably too hard. ‘He didn’t--’

‘No, it was fine,’ Penny reassures him, patting his hand with her free one. He lets out an immense sigh - he won’t have to set anything or anyone on fire today, at least - and mutters, ‘Thank the stars. What happened?’

Penny smirks. ‘I took Agatha with me as insurance, didn’t I? He thinks she’s the greatest thing since Zefram Cochrane, so I knew he wouldn’t flip out if I brought it up while she was there. Totally worked, too. He was never going to apologise - we all know he’s not evolved enough for _that_ \- but he did say, “I have been trying to make him a stronger student,” which is practically a--’

‘--a signed confession,’ Baz finishes, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Bunce, that is… truly admirable work. So that’s why he was slightly less of a tyrant two days ago. I thought he’d somehow got wind of Snow -- Simon -- here helping me, but… it was you. My guardian angel.’

‘I prefer “decent human being”, thanks.’

Baz actually cracks a smile at that. Baz!

‘Well,’ Baz says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Penny says, like it’s nothing. Simon doesn’t think it’s nothing; he doesn’t know what he thinks. Just that he’s proud of Penny, and relieved she’s okay, and sort of glad for Baz’s sake. And sort of jealous that Penny was just the one to make him smile, even though that’s legitimately insane. ‘The Mage hates me now, of course,’ Penny goes on, ‘but he can’t touch me. I can always answer his questions, thanks to Premal’s books, and it doesn’t hurt that my mum’s an admiral serving at HQ.’

‘You mean he’s scared of you?’ Simon interprets, and Penny grins..

‘He sure he. Scared of a tiny little person with purple hair. Ha.’

Simon laughs, but he’s distracted; he’s still worried about what Penny’s just said. ‘It’s good what you did, Penny, but don’t you think we should… I dunno, tell someone about how dodgy he is? You can’t trust him as far as you can throw him, and he’s obviously dangerous. I hate to think what could’ve happened if you’d been alone with him. You or Agatha,’ he corrects, when Penny looks like she’s about to protest. He knows she can take care of herself, if she has to, but that’s just the thing: she shouldn’t have to. The formation of Starfleet, and of the Federation, was supposed to be the indication to the rest of the quadrant that Earth and Terrans are past this sort of crap, but they obviously aren’t.

‘He shouldn’t be a teacher,’ Simon finishes, grumpy.

The other two are silent, and Simon is thinking about taking back his words when Baz speaks. ‘Would Admiral Bunce be able to help us?’

Penny nods; she seems to catch Baz’s meaning right away, even though Simon doesn’t. ‘You mean if we… interviewed some of the students of different classes and asked them about their experiences, or something?’ Baz nods. ‘You’re right, Pitch. If the Mage acts like this in our class, we can be pretty sure he does it in others, too. And you know what? I reckon Mum _would_ help us out. If we got enough statements together, built up a case, she’d be happy to see him punished. She’s never liked him.’

‘Sounds like no one does,’ Simon mutters.

‘This plan actually seems… almost doable,’ Baz says, slowly, like he’s afraid to get his hopes up too high.

Penny turns to Simon, her gaze piercing through her thick-rimmed glasses. ‘What do you think, Simon?’

There’s no question what his answer is going to be, and he knows Penny knows it: ‘I’m in.’

*

Simon isn’t sure why he expected Baz and Penny - and isn’t that just the creepiest, cleverest, potentially deadliest combination of people he’s ever known - to approach this plan with any tact at all, because they don’t. Gungho had been Simon’s go-to methodology until he realised that sort of thing might get him kicked out of the Academy; it’s right weird to be the one wondering if marching around and demanding answers from older cadets is really the best way to go.

Penny’s idea is to stand a few corridors away from where the Mage’s classes let out, Baz lurking beside her, and pretend to take an anonymous survey on student satisfaction. Which she is, if you get right down to it; she’s just chucked in a few questions she doesn’t really need the answers to for the sake of authenticity. Simon won’t tell her this, but he’s sure it helps that she looks exactly like her mother - she only has to say the name Bunce for people to sit up and take notice.

A few days later, they’ve polled sixty-seven students across all three years. Penny commandeers a classroom for them - Simon has no idea how, and isn’t sure he wants to - and they pore over the collated data, Simon scanning for the Mage’s name, Baz taking notes, and Penny writing up what looks disturbingly like an official Starfleet report. 

‘Well, we know one thing for sure,’ Simon says. He holds up his PADD so the others can see the highlighted sections of text. ‘Everybody loves Professor Possibelf, and Commander Tullington should have retired ten years ago.’

Baz snorts. ‘Fascinating. Have we found out anything actually _useful_?’

‘Someone really likes The Three Andorians?’ Penny holds up a PADD where someone has answered every question with the lyrics to “Time Is A Lie”. She sighs. ‘At least we only had one joke answer. Simon, how many direct references do we have to the Mage?’ 

‘Hang on,’ Simon says, switching tabs on his PADD and ignoring Baz’s melodramatic eye roll. Wanker. ‘Including searches for “Salisbury”, “Mage”, and “Flight Theory”... forty. Yeah.’ He looks up into two astonished faces. ‘That’s… a lot.’

‘Sixty percent,’ Penny murmurs. ‘I expected people to mention him, but… woah. Share those references with us, Simon, and we’ll each look through a third.’

By the time two hours have passed, Simon is exhausted and desperate for a cuppa. He stands without speaking - he feels Baz’s eyes on his back, but ignores them - and heads down a floor to fetch them all tea from the mess hall. He comes back a few minutes later to Baz and Penny bent over a spreadsheet. 

He sets the three cups on the table, avoiding the PADDs, and flops back into his seat. ‘What’d I miss?’

‘The Mage is evil,’ Baz says.

Penny rolls her eyes, but she’s almost smiling. ‘Well, we knew that, but it’s worse than we thought. Or maybe better, considering our purposes.’ She pushes one of the PADDs in front of him. ‘There are so many complaints, Simon. So many of them mention him by name. Lots of them describe the crappy way he treats any student he doesn’t like, too. I think it’s enough to get him investigated even if we keep the anonymity of the respondents intact. Starfleet technically has a no-tolerance bullying policy, and if we submit these… it’s enough.’ She turns to Baz. ‘Especially if you’re willing to speak up, Baz.’ It’s the first time she’s called him anything but Pitch. It’s kind of disturbing. 

It happens so quickly, it’s like someone’s flicked a switch: Baz’s face shuts down. ‘No.’

‘But--’

‘ _No_ ,’ Baz growls. ‘I agreed to participate in this little project because I don’t think a man like the Mage deserves to be in power, but I’m not attaching my name to it like some whistleblowing martyr. Absolutely not.’

‘It would help _so much_ if you did, you know. Your mother--’

‘My mother has nothing to do with this,’ Baz snaps. ‘Don’t ever mention her name again.’

They glare at each other, neither of them willing to back down, and then Penny huffs and stands. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Waste the work we’ve just done. I don’t care.’ She storms out, effectively undermining her own point. Simon expects Baz to storm out in the other direction and isn’t quite sure what to do when he doesn’t. After a moment of prickly silence, Baz tugs his cup of tea towards him and takes a sip. He blinks, eyes flicking towards Simon in open surprise.

‘You remembered how I take my tea?’

Embarrassed, Simon shrugs. ‘You order it twelve times a day from the dorm replicator, how could I not?’

‘Why, Simon,’ Baz says, smirking, ‘you recalled a small detail! I hardly knew you had it in you.’

‘Shut up,’ Simon says, but he hears right away that it lacks the venom it usually does.

They sip their tea in silence as Penny’s goes cold. Baz keeps licking his lips when he draws the cup away from his mouth, like he’s savouring every drop. They’re pink and moist, his pointy incisors peeking out from beneath them, and Simon is starting to go insane. He wants to punch him, or… maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wants to do the opposite of punch him.

Just to say something, just to break the cycle of madness, he blurts out, ‘I’d go with you, you know.’

Baz frowns. ‘Where?’

‘To Penny’s mum. Don’t get mad!’ He thrusts a hand out to stop the near-certain outburst of fury, and is amazed when it actually works. ‘Don’t get mad. Just… listen, okay?’

Baz makes a face, but he doesn’t protest. 

‘I get why you don’t want to go public with how the Mage has been treating you. I do. But what if I came with you and told my side of the story?’

‘What, that he adores you and gives you brilliant marks? A tragedy.’

‘Piss off. I mean that he favoured me over others, gave me access to the holosimulator when it’s not allowed.’ Simon runs a hand through his hair, wincing. ‘He also pretty much promised me a spot on the demonstration team next semester, even though that’s _definitely_ not allowed. I could tell Admiral Bunce. It might help if someone reports him who’s… on the other side of things.’

Baz watches him, unblinking, for what feels like an hour. Simon forces himself not to squirm. Then Baz says, ‘You understand that if you do this, you’ll be sabotaging any chance you might have had to be on the team? Or to get decent marks in Flight Theory?’

Simon shrugs; it stings, but it’s the right thing to do. He’d probably have messed up being on the demonstration team anyway. He’s never been great in a group.

‘And you’d do that?’ Baz asks. He’s looking at Simon like he’s a bomb about to go off, or like he expects to jump up and shout, “Surprise! Just kidding!” any minute. (Simon’s almost tempted to do it, just to see how Baz would react, but he’s not that cruel.)

‘Yeah,’ Simon says, instead. ‘I would.’

‘Snow,’ Baz mutters. He’s shaking his head. ‘Simon, I… dammit,’ he mutters. He’s clenching his fists on the table, knuckles white. Then, abruptly, he stands, hauls Simon out of his chair by the front of his cadet shirt, and kisses him.

Simon is supremely confused for one long, weird second, and then everything about the last four months starts to make sense, and he kisses Baz back.

They kiss for long enough that Simon forgets, a little bit, who he is, and who Baz is, and how they even got here. He just knows he doesn’t really want to stop. They do stop eventually, though; Baz is the one to pull away, but he’s got his hand gripped into Simon’s shirt like a vice and he doesn’t let go, and he doesn’t pull far away. Just an inch.

‘Does this mean you’re not going to punch me?’ Simon whispers.

Baz laughs; it sounds raw from the kissing. ‘Why would I punch you?’

‘Because I kissed you?’

‘I kissed _you_ , you idiot.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Simon says. He grins. Baz smirks at him. Simon leans in and kisses it off his face.

*

With Simon beside him, Baz agrees to go to Admiral Bunce with their findings. Penny comes as well, of course - she even books them an appointment with her mum’s secretary, so it’s clear from the start that they’re here on official business - and Admiral Bunce welcomes them with a curious but serious expression, then listens carefully to what they say, examines the evidence, and lets them know she’ll do what she can.

It isn’t the immediate, enraged response Simon has secretly been hoping for, but he realises that these things take time; that’s only one reason he’s so astonished when a week later, he walks into Flight Theory to find the Mage has magically morphed into Professor Possibelf. She’s one of the attaches to the Starfleet Corps of Engineers, and she’s a renowned pilot of incredible skill. 

‘There’s no reason to keep this information hidden when it’s only going to come out anyway,’ she tells them. ‘Commander Salisbury, sometimes known as the Mage, has been temporarily stood down from all teaching positions, pending inquiry into unprofessional conduct.’

Someone behind Simon actually whoops; at least ten people clap. He tries to smother a grin and fails.

‘Let’s start with a recap,’ Possibelf says, over the noise. ‘I want to get a sense of where you’re all at.’

It’s such a relief to hear those words, spoken by someone who actually means them.

Simon might have lost his chance to be the youngest cadet in history to get a spot on the flight demonstration team, but he still kind of feels like he’s won. Snogging Baz is almost better than flying, anyway.

Not that he’ll ever tell him that.


End file.
